Chicken Soup for the Dieter's Soul (13 page)

I also give myself an occasional treat. About once a month I have a toasted bagel with cream cheese, or on my son’s birthday, I have a very small slice of his rhubarb pie. The next day I go right back on the plan. Special-occasion foods and small, planned indulgences keep us emotionally satisfied and moving forward.

Lifelong weight loss is a life choice. I know if I return to my former eating habits, the weight will return. I know how my body works. These principles apply to many weight-loss plans. Low-carb is the one that worked for me.

Nine years into my lifestyle change, I am healthier than ever, have more energy and my vision for the future is boundless! Accomplishing my goal has done wonders for my life view. Previously, life was shadowed by the oft-quoted phrase that inside me was a thin person screaming to get out. Well, she is out! To stay!

Linda Sago

Reprinted by permission of Mark Parisi.

Peel-a-Pound Soup

N
ever eat more than you can lift.

Miss Piggy

The year was November 1975. Lynne and I were stationed at the American Embassy in Mexico City, and it was several weeks before the evening of the Marine Ball. This was THE most important social function of the year.

My army dress blues and Lynne’s black formal were cloaked in plastic hanging in the closet. For some reason she’d decided to “try it on” that afternoon. Lynne looked great in black, and she would always turn a lot of heads at that formal event. Iwas very proud ofmywife and she knew it. When she came out of the bedroom in that slinky formal and asked how she looked, it must have surprised her when I said (jokingly, mind you), “Just a tad bit chunky, dear.”

“What?!”

Now in all honesty, I’d been sitting in the recliner half asleep while watching TV, so I wasn’t alert to the possible ramifications of my remark; however, her tone of voice snapped me completely awake. “What do you mean . . . CHUNKY?”

“Uh . . . um, well, it just seems a little snug in the hips is all. Actually it looks fine, dear.”

Her normally soft blue eyes glared menacingly, piercing me like an insect specimen impaled on a pin. There was no way I’d get out of this easily. It turned out I didn’t have to . . . well, that’s not entirely true.

The following evening I walked in the door to be met with a horrendous smell that put my olfactory senses on high alert. Lynne was in the kitchen stirring a large pot of soup. She looked up, smiling sweetly. “Hello, dear. Have a good day?” I simply nodded; relieved that apparently I was forgiven for my faux pas of the afternoon before.

“What’s in the pot?” I asked, fearing her answer. As I suspected, she replied with “dinner.” I stood with my mouth agape as she stirred the concoction a few more times before looking up at me and saying, “It’s called Peel-a-Pound Soup. It’s very filling, and since you’ve decided I’m a bit CHUNKY, I’m going on a diet. Julie gave me the recipe,” she said as she handed me a slip of paper. I stood there and read the neat printing of Lynne’s best friend.

A large can of V-8 juice, a large can of tomatoes, an entire stalk of celery, six onions, one head of cabbage, one grated carrot, and just a pinch of salt, pepper and garlic powder to taste. Boil it all up and eat as much as you want.

“But Julie must weigh 165 pounds, Lynne,” I protested. “She hasn’t lost an ounce since we’ve known her.”

Lynne nodded, “Julie and I are starting this diet today.”

I thought for a moment, then gathered my courage. “No dear,” I replied magnanimously, “WE’RE going on this diet today. After all, if I hadn’t made that stupid remark . . .” I let the sentence trail off in an attempt to gain some sympathy that I knew beforehand would not be forthcoming. I was right. She set the ladle down and gave me a big hug.

“That’s so SWEET of you, darling, but YOU don’t have to, you know. YOU don’t NEED this diet. You’re not . . . CHUNKY!”

Women!

Now I’m a “meat and potatoes” kinda guy, and as I took my first taste of this soup, I wished I was back to eating C rations in the field. The stuff was awful, but if this was what she wanted, so be it. It was the least I could do to make up for criticizing her looks. Since digestion of this soup is supposed to consume more calories than it contains, it couldn’t take long until she lost the maybe five pounds it would take to make her feel comfy again. How long could this last? A couple of days at the most? Knowing her the way I did, I figured she’d get tired of this very soon, especially since it was a morning, noon and nighttime drill. In the meantime I’d grab a few rolls for breakfast at work, then eat a hearty lunch and late-afternoon snack at the restaurant next door to the embassy and wouldn’t have to consume much of this god-awful concoction at home. Just enough to let her know she had my support. Anyway, that was The Plan.

The thing is, I felt guilty doing it, knowing my wife was at home eating that horrible soup while I pigged out on sweet rolls for breakfast and enchiladas for lunch. The little devil on my left shoulder whispered in my ear that it was her decision. I didn’t need to lose weight, did I? Of course not! But the little angel on my right shoulder whispered that this entire situation was my fault. After all, I just needed to eat one meal of the stuff while Lynne had to choke down three of them.

Seven days and a loss of eight pounds later the diet was over. I knew it the day Lynne greeted me at our door dressed in her black formal and high heels, with the diamond pendant that I’d given her on our anniversary two years ago adorning her neck. “See?” she said, beaming, “it worked.” She turned around slowly and I couldn’t help but think how lucky I was to be married to such a beautiful woman.

That night we celebrated with dinner at a fancy restaurant and an evening of dancing. Both of us turned down the soup course.

Gary Luerding

Anytime Soup

M
AKES
8
SERVINGS
E
ACH SERVING:
5
GRAMS PROTEIN
, 10
GRAMS CARBOHYDRATE

1 pound chicken parts or soup bones

½ head shredded green cabbage

1 minced garlic clove

2 chopped celery stalks

2 pounds diced fresh tomatoes

3 chopped carrots

2 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley

½ teaspoon dried thyme (optional)

½ teaspoon dried basil (optional)

freshly ground black pepper to taste

4 cups low-sodium chicken stock, or 4 cups water

2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice, or 2 tablespoons cider vinegar

In a large heavy-bottomed soup pot, bring all the ingredients except lemon juice or vinegar to a boil. Lower heat and simmer 1 hour. Remove chicken parts or soup bones. Shred chicken and return to pot. Add lemon juice or vinegar. Taste, and adjust seasonings.

Reprinted from
The Schwarzbein Principle Cookbook
. ©1999
Diana Schwarzbein, M.D., Nancy Deville and Evelyn Jacob. Health Communications, Inc.

Running from a Diabetic Coma to the Marine Corps Marathon

M
any people limit themselves to what they
think they can do. You can go as far as your
mind lets you. What you believe, you can
achieve.

Mary Kay Ash

I had been overweight—obese even—but I had no idea I had diabetes until I nearly died. Just after Memorial Day 2001, I started feeling nauseated. I called in sick that Wednesday and Thursday. When I didn’t show up for work or call in on Friday, my manager called my father.

My dad drove from Greencastle, Pennsylvania, to Washington, DC, where he found me unconscious on the floor of my apartment. Firefighters rushed me to the emergency department at Georgetown University Hospital where I was admitted in a diabetic coma. When I regained consciousness a week later, doctors told me I had diabetes and would have to take insulin twice daily for the rest of my life.

I was in bad shape then—my muscles had so atrophied I could barely stand and couldn’t walk. They sent me by ambulance to Mount Vernon Rehabilitation Center in Alexandria, Virginia. That first day of physical therapy was agony. Pain shot up my legs. It would go on for another two weeks. When it was done, I had spent over a month in hospitals.

The night before I left rehab, one of the nurses came to see me. He was a small, wiry Southern man and an extremely professional nurse. “Remember, there’s nothing you can’t do,” he said. I always figured he meant that literally, although I was still very sick and spent the next two months in diabetes education, examinations and more physical therapy. On my first attempt to walk the block around my apartment, I couldn’t even make it to the corner. I walked a little farther every morning until I could make it to the Metrobus stop on Wisconsin Avenue and back to my apartment.

After Labor Day, I went back to work nearly thirty pounds lighter and began my life as a middle-aged poster boy. I followed through with every doctor’s appointment or blood test and walked daily—forty-five minutes on weekday mornings and an hour or longer on weekends. I finished physical therapy and wanted to build upon my gains. I joined a gym and worked out three nights a week. The first night I could barely bench-press the barbell without any weight plates. I scoured local stores for books about diabetes. I began carefully planning meals and snacks. Despite everyone’s doubts, I began to think I might get off of insulin. Seven times a day, I stuck my finger and tested my blood sugar. It began to come down, as did my weight. Soon I was thirty, then forty pounds lighter. After the New Year, the endocrinologist was skeptical but agreed to let me try diet control. Just eight months after the coma, I was off of insulin and all diabetes medications.

Seeking a new challenge, I entered the registration lottery for the Marine Corps Marathon. When I got the e-mail confirming my race entry, I knew that if I was going to do this I needed to join a training group. I chose the National AIDS Marathon Training Program, which raised funds for a local clinic. Although almost pathologically shy, I thought I might make a good fund-raiser, and I reached out to colleagues, family and friends with fund-raising appeals.

Recovering from a diabetic coma was the hardest thing I’d ever done. Training for the marathon was a close second. We began the first weekend in May—six months before the marathon.We met in Georgetown early Sunday mornings and ran the C&O Canal towpath. They put us into pace groups based on our expected marathon finish times. I continued training and raised almost double the fund-raising minimum.

Marathon day in late October was a blast. We drew energy from cheering crowds lined along the route. Because it started out cooler than normal, I forgot to drink water, and near the twenty-mile mark along the Mall, my calf muscles began cramping. Pain gripped me with each stride, but after all I had been through, I couldn’t give up. Walking most of the rest of the way, a woman in my pace group helped me get to the Fourteenth Street Bridge before it re-opened to traffic. I did it! I finished! I was now a marathoner, who just happened to have type 2 diabetes. I crossed the finish line with a whole new outlook on life, thankful for my rapid recovery and ready to live!

Guy Burdick

What’s the Point?

I
can resist everything, except temptation.

OscarWilde

The women in my family have been living by a number systemfor the past several weeks, so the other day I decided to get in on the program, too. This program now assigns every edible item on the face of the earth a corresponding point value, and according to your present weight, you get a preset number of points (or food) that you can eat. Therefore, if you’re lucky, that means you can have three meals a day . . . as long as you don’t mind gum for one of them.

The points add up quickly. For example, a slice of bread is 2 points, an enchilada is 9 points, and a meal at McDonalds is 1,229,789—or better yet, your last meal on earth.

The night before my diet was set to start, I checked out the chart to see how many points I could eat each day. Based on my weight, I’m allowed twenty-five. Seeing as that wouldn’t work for me, I decided that because I’m a man, and therefore I have the role of hunter-gatherer in the family, I should have extra points. So I gave myself thirty points a day. In other words, I added up the equivalent of twenty-five points and realized that if I stuck to that meager plan, I wouldn’t be able to operate heavy machinery. But don’t think that extra seven points buys me a trip down the buffet line. There are only degrees of starvation.